


The One With the Distance

by orphan_account



Category: letsplay, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Markiplier - Freeform, markiplier imagines, markiplier preferences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were lucky to have a boyfriend who fully supported your ideas, no matter how crazy they were. When you wanted to learn how to make sushi, he took a class with you. When you wanted to rearrange the furniture in your living room at 3am, he helped you reconfigure the layout. When you wanted to go hiking in the Grand Canyon, he bought the same equipment you did so you could do it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One With the Distance

You were lucky to have a boyfriend who fully supported your ideas, no matter how crazy they were. When you wanted to learn how to make sushi, he took a class with you. When you wanted to rearrange the furniture in your living room at 3am, he helped you reconfigure the layout. When you wanted to go hiking in the Grand Canyon, he bought the same equipment you did so you could do it together.

So, when you mentioned that you were thinking about getting your Master’s degree in creative writing, it wasn’t a surprise when Mark encouraged you to apply. You knew that Iowa had the best program in the country and waited with baited breath after you submitted your application. When a massive envelope from the University of Iowa came in the mail, he ran into the house in a flurry of excitement, holding what could only be your acceptance packet right in front of your face.

It was a two-year residency program, which meant that you would have to move from your home in California to the university in the Midwest, only being able to come home on weekends or extended breaks. It wasn’t _that_ big of a deal – you were solid in your relationship with Mark, never questioning whether or not your relationship would stand the test of time.

You’d taken to sending each other daily selfies of what you looked like, sometimes while you were still in bed in the morning, sometimes when you were just out of class, tired and ready for dinner. You saved every picture Mark sent to you, keeping one as your lock screen and a different one for your home screen – he’d let you know that he did the same, always smiling when he unlocked his phone.

With having so much work to do – being required to attend workshops, seminars, and roundtables even on the weekends – it was rare that you would have a chance to see your boyfriend in the flesh. The two of you understood this going into it – you wouldn’t have left for Iowa had you been under the assumption that being away from him was going to be _easy_.

Needless to say, it still sucked. You needed to focus on your work, and he on his. Not being able to see him and his crazy antics - save for FaceTiming every once in a while and catching up on his videos when you had the chance – was really beginning to take its toll on you. The both of you, you were sure. You longed for a free moment in both of your schedules so that you could call him on Skype, so you could see him and hear him laugh at your dumb jokes.

He called you late one night, your scratchy voice and groggy mind answering his call. He apologized – knew that it was 1am your time, even though it was only 11 where he was – but he just really needed to see you. Needed to hear your voice, needed to see your smile, needed to get his virtual fill of you before he could do anything else.

You slipped your glasses on, turning on the lamp on your bedside table. You yawned while your laptop came to life, prompting you to enter your password. You didn’t mind waking up to a call from him – you _never_ minding hearing from him – and it was quite sweet to hear the desperation in his voice when he begged you to Skype him.

Within two seconds of you signing on, a call came in from Mark, his Skype picture showcasing double chins and a quirky smile. You shifted in bed, resting the laptop on the pillow next to your head so that you could lay down, still tired from the drafts you had been working on that day. Plugging in your headphones, you waited for the call to connect.

“Hi, baby,” you smiled, your voice still veiled with sleep. His voice filled your ears, his face filling the frame. You couldn’t help but sigh wistfully at the image – he was still all yours, even after all this time.

“Oh, God,” he grinned, all of his teeth showing at once. “You’re even better than I imagined!”

You’d caught him up on your work without divulging too much. You wanted him to be surprised with your end result, and you technically weren’t allowed to share your progress with anyone who wasn’t in your workshop. However, you explained to him where you were at in each short story of your anthology, your heart swelling at how intently he listened to you speak about your work.

He mentioned some collaborations he had in mind, explaining how he was getting “the ole band back together” for some videos soon. You laughed at his ideas, rolled your eyes at some of the content he had dreamt up, and asked him questions that got him excited all over again. You couldn’t help but miss him, with his loud voice and frantic hands.

“You look so good,” you’d told him, brushing your fingers across the screen, wishing you could touch _him_ instead. “Is that a new shirt?”

“Yeah,” he smirked, looking down at his clothing. “Shows off my muscles really well, doesn’t it?”

You’d looked at each other then, a certain twinkle in one another’s eyes, and without even thinking about it, you began to disrobe in front of him. Your roommate – another workshop member who was named Shannon – was asleep by now, always prescribing to a 9pm bedtime. It didn’t matter much anyway; you both had separate rooms across the short hallway, not sharing any walls. You were safe.

You could hear his sharp intake of breath when you slipped off your shirt – an old one you had nabbed from the back of his t-shirt drawer before you left – and you smiled coyly, winking at him from miles away. While you waited for him to take his own off, you rested your hands on your breasts, mindlessly playing with them as he watched, dumbfounded.

“You’re not wearing any pants, are you?” he asked once his bare chest was all you could see.

“Mmm,” you smirked. “No. I’m not. And I presume you aren’t, either, Mr. Fischbach.”

He stood up so that his torso was in the screen, the bulge in his boxer briefs evident as he turned sideways, pointing at his crotch with a thumbs-up. You giggled, sneaking your hand down to your own underwear, slipping your palm beneath the fabric. Letting out a small moan, you raised your eyebrows as Mark raised his.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he sighed, sliding his hand down to the tightening in his groin. You prompted him to scooch back so you could see him in all his glory – and of course, you did the same for him after he refused to if _you_ didn’t.

You watched as he touched himself, muttering about how much he missed you, how much he wished you were there at that exact moment. He talked about how beautiful you were, how he was living off of the memory of your taste – how you always seemed to taste like candy or mint. He guided your movements for you, telling where to touch and when, gripping at himself when it got to be too much.

You whimpered at his image on the screen, the veins in his forearms pumping up and down with the erratic strokes of his hand. It was too much to be away from him – too much to not be able to touch him. But, you relished in it. You knew that he was the only person on earth you’d feel comfortable enough doing this with, and that comfort pushed you over the edge.

When you asked him if he was ready – if he was close – he simply nodded his head and closed his eyes, unable to stand the noises you were emitting, along with the visuals you were providing. You came before him, wanting to see his reaction to you, and you weren’t disappointed. With a soft grunt and a flick of his thumb over the tip of his dick, he came in spurts across his chest, satisfied and tired.

“I love you,” you smiled dreamily before you signed off, only to go back to bed in a different state – _without him_.

“I love you most,” he said.

“Impossible. I love you the most. I love you for letting me work on my dreams, even if it means we can’t be together for a little while.”

“Okay, but I still love you the most. And I won’t apologize for it.”

That was the thing between the two of you – neither one of you were allowed _not_ to return an “I love you,” no matter how mad at the other you were. It grounded you when you were focused on things that didn’t matter – who really cared about forgetting to put gas in the car? Was it the end of the world if he spent money on a stupid toy again? Did you really need to get angry when he laughed at you because you couldn’t figure out how to remote-start your car? _I love you_ was the truce; it was the reality check both of you needed sometimes.

You missed him. You really, _really_ missed him. Hours would go by while you were working on your drafts, while you were in workshops, while you edited the work of other writers and you would forget that you weren’t going home to him. The workshops, the editing, the hours and hours of discussion- they were all a distraction, and they were why you were there, but you couldn’t help but long for his presence again. You had no idea _when_ you were going to see him again, but every chance either one of you got, you said _I love you_ , and all was well.

And then, when a free weekend popped up on your schedule for the first time in months, you knew exactly what to do. You planned it all in secret. You bought the plane ticket – expensive for being last-minute, but that didn’t bother you if it meant you could see Mark; you set up the rental car so that you could drive right up to your house and surprise him face-to-face; you’d even made a reservation at his favorite Japanese restaurant for Saturday night. It would, without a doubt, be perfect.

So, really, it was indescribable what you felt when Mark said those words in your kitchen, standing across from you. He said it in nearly a whisper, looking down at his hands, unable to reach your eyes for more than a millisecond. As he explained himself, your body turned into pins and needles, every nerve ending firing off the wrong signals.

The words came out as if they were underwater, muddled and from a different world altogether: _I slept with her, and I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t. I was just so fucking drunk and so fucking lonely that I couldn’t control myself. That’s not an excuse. I know it’s not…_

You looked at him, not knowing what to say. Your heart suddenly felt like it had stopped, sinking into your stomach. You felt like rain drops against a window, frantically split into multiple parts, racing down to the windowsill in jagged lines, never to meet up again.

“What?” you ask, your voice breaking. The tears hadn’t come, but your eyes were burning. There was a pain beneath them, a dull sensation that made you wince.

“I ju – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. One thing lead to another and she-”

“No,” you shake your head, bringing your hand up to silence him. You heard him perfectly the first time – you didn’t need him to repeat himself.

The two of you look at one another, silent, the island in your kitchen the only thing separating you. It was less than three feet between you, but it might as well been a canyon. Mark looks at you, tears in his eyes, mouth open and afraid to say anything else.

“And how the fuck do you think that makes me feel?” you whisper, your eyes closing as you grip the granite of the countertop. “You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants for one second. Did you stop and think about how that would make me feel, Mark? Look at me.”

The tears had come now. Streaming down your face, they left hot trails of saline down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them away – you were sure more were coming, so what was the point? Mark looked down at his hands, automatically taken back to his five-year-old self.

“LOOK AT ME, MARK!” you scream. Your voice echoed throughout the kitchen the two of you had made so many late-night meals in.

Mark looked up. Your t-shirt was ruffled at the waist, strands of your hair falling out of its loose ponytail holder. Mascara made lines down your face and pooled at your chin, waiting to be released down your neck. You didn’t know it, but your face had become red, the shade it turned when the wind hit it in the winter.

“I wrote a short story about you,” you whisper, swallowing before continuing, your voice calmer now. “For my anthology – for the program. About how I worried so much about finding someone who wouldn’t treat me like my dad treated my mom,” your breath hitches in your throat at the memory, forcing you to pause before going on. “But then we met and I knew I didn’t have to worry anymore. The search was off. I knew you weren’t going to do anything to hurt me and that you would keep your promises,” you sob, unable to believe your deepest fears had come true.

Mark had to look down as you sobbed across from him, a fresh set of tears falling down your face.

“And then I come home to surprise you, after showing you my fucking tits on Skype, after touching myself on camera for you,” you grit your teeth and shake your head, willing yourself to keep it together for a little while longer. “Spent $600 on a flight because it was last minute. Got a fucking rental car because I wanted to surprise you. I just –” you bite your bottom lip, “Why?”

Mark stuffed both of his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, trying to conceal his tears. Was he allowed to cry? He wasn’t sure.

“Did you forget everything you told me?” you hiccup, furiously wiping your tears away with your fingertips. “Did you forget that you love me? Oh, God,” you groan, looking up to the ceiling. “Do you even love me?”

“Of course I do!” Mark’s voice bursts through his lips, his brow furrowed as the first tears escape down his cheeks. Still looking down at the countertop, he sniffs his tears away, shaking his head. “Of course I do.”

“Then look at me,” you spit out, slapping your hand down on the cool granite. “LOOK AT ME!”

His eyes flit up to you and look down again before gaining the courage to look into your eyes at you and keep them there once and for all.

“Look at what you’ve done. How does it feel to know that you’ve done this to me?”

You walk over to the end of the island, resting your hip against the corner. Now, the only barrier between the two of you was the thick air resting at eye level.

“How does it feel, Mark?” you whisper, tilting your head to look him straight in the eyes.

Mark remained silent, his heart beating out of control.

“I hate you, you fucking bastard,” you grate the words between your teeth. They came out raw and unyielding.

You knew the words weren’t true. You knew that you could never hate him. You knew that the only thing you wanted at that very moment was to make him feel as horrible as you did – if not worse. The only way you knew how to make him hurt – to make his heart bleed out – was to spew words of hatred at him.

You step back and look at him.

Seeing him for the first time in months, you realize that you didn’t know this person at all. This man, this man who would stitch your heart on his sleeve, only to rip it off when you turned away. This man, who would pretend to love you, only to watch your sense of reality fade. This man, who refused to catch you before you fall.

You kneel down on the floor, gripping the end of the counter, your sobs ripping at the seams of your body. Your cries fill the kitchen as you slide down to sit on the floor, gripping your fists at your sides. He didn’t know it then, but the sounds that echoed against the walls of your house would repeat over and over in Mark’s mind, relentless.

“Oh, God,” you weep. “Is this what you wanted? Is this how you wanted to see me?”

Mark calls you by your nickname, and you stare at him through blurry eyes.

“I’m not some stupid little girl who’s okay with my boyfriend of three years cheating on me,” you clear your throat, hoping that your tears don’t belittle your point. “I can’t just sweep this under the rug.”

“Just-” Mark started, unable to look directly at you. “Just get off the floor.”

“Why? Do I look pathetic? Do I, Mark?”

He didn’t speak.

“Because – _fuck_ – that’s the last thing I would want to look like.”

You stare at him for a moment, crouching beneath him, physically representing how small he made you feel. You shook your head, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. Raising to your feet, you made your way out of the kitchen, your steps rough and unsteady.

“Where are you going?” Mark calls behind you.

“To get my shit,” you say, your voice bitter.

You enter the bedroom that you and Mark had shared for the past year and a half, save the time you had been in Iowa. Furiously shoving things in your quilted duffel bag, you sniffed and sputtered, shaking the tears away whenever you felt them prick at your eyes again.

“Baby,” Mark says, his form filling the doorway. You don’t stop your frantic movements to listen to whatever he has to say. Walking to and from the bathroom, your hair falls in your face and sticks to the tears, causing you to look manic. “Baby.” He says again. “I love you so much. Jesus Christ, I love you _so_ much. I’m so sorry. So, so, so, so sorry.”

“How could you do this?” you ask, your hands at your sides. One holds toothpaste – the other, your toothbrush. “I’m just so confused. I really thought we would be okay, y'know?” you look up to the ceiling and bite your lower lip, willing the tears to stay in place. “I thought everything was good.”

“It was. It _is_ ,” he corrects himself, walking into the room. “God, _fuck_ , I don’t know what came over me. I swear on everything that I never meant to do anything that would hurt you, or us, or fuck – _anything_! I just missed you so much and I – _shit_ ,” his voice cracks through his muffled tears, which only spur yours on more.

“It hurts,” you gasp, desperate for any reprieve from what you were feeling. “I didn’t –” you pause, trying to compose yourself. “I thought we could get married once I was done,” you stop willing the tears away and let them flow once again, collapsing down to the bed with your head in your hands. “Oh, God. It hurts so much.”

You feel the weight of Mark sink next to you into the mattress and you don’t push him away when he wraps his arms around you, his cheek rested against your back. You’re half of a person – literally folded into two pieces, two parts of a whole that was broken by the news that your boyfriend wasn’t who you thought he was.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs into your back, your ragged breath and heaving causing his head to move up and down. “I’m such a piece of shit – _goddamnit_ – I’m such a fucking idiot.”

You stay this way for a while, bent at the waist, your head in your hands. You allow yourself to feel the static in your brain, like you’re a television set that can’t find a signal. Snow falls down on your world, white noise taking the place of your heart that’s been cracked straight down the middle.

“I love you so much,” he says into the fabric of your t-shirt. You bought it thinking how much he would enjoy the color – it was one of his favorite pieces of clothing on you, and every time you wore it, he would tell you how pretty it made your eyes look. “I don’t know what to do,” Mark whispers after he calms down, feeling your body still beneath you.

“Was she pretty?” you lift up so that you’re released from his grasp.

“What?” he asks, wiping at the residual tears on his cheeks.

“Was she pretty?” your voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. Instead, it’s that of a fourteen-year-old girl who has had her heart broken for the very first time; a meek sound that doesn’t claim you as its owner.

“I don’t – why – that doesn’t matter,” he shakes his head, placing his palm on your shoulder. You pull away from it, the feel of his normally comforting touch quickly becoming foreign.

“What was her name? Did you ask her what her name was?”

“Wh-why is that important?”

“It’s not,” you shrug, standing up. “I just want to know who the bitch is so I can know if you replace me with her later on down the line.”

You look at the pain that flashes through his eyes, yet don’t regret the implications of your words. Once again, all you wanted him to feel was the pit in your stomach; the burn in your lungs that tore through you every time you inhaled.

“I would never replace you with any-” Mark stops mid-sentence, realizing the lie he was telling himself. He _had_ replaced you with someone – with some broad at the bar who said all the right things, who could perform in all the ways you couldn’t, miles and miles away.

“Hmph,” you snort, placing your toiletries in your weekend duffel.

“This doesn’t mean I love you any less,” Mark mumbles, a fresh set of tears beginning to pool in his eyes. “I was drunk, and stupid, and I know that’s not an excuse but holy shit – I just missed you _so_ much,” he shakes his head, ashamed of himself. “You have no idea how badly I wish I could just – just erase what I did and not make you feel this way. To not be such a fucking idiot an-”

“I went to Iowa to better myself,” you cut him off. “I knew what I wanted to do, and even though I didn’t think I could do it, you promised me that it would all turn out in my favor. You _promised_ me that I was good enough,” you zip your duffel closed. “And now I feel like it was just a ploy.”

“No, no, no,” he shakes his head, his arms reached out towards you as he raises up off the bed. “Baby, you have no idea how much I love you. What I said was true – I still mean all of those things and all of my promises are still true.”

You step back from him, not wanting him to come any closer. Tutting your lips, you hesitate to believe anything he says. “You promised me we’d be good – that everything would be really fucking _good_ between us – if I went back to school,” you explained, your voice even and calm. “And now?” you breathe in, holding your tears back, not wanting your chin to begin shaking, your voice to become cracked and muddled. “Now? I don’t know if _any_ thing you said was true.”

He looks at you, this man you thought you knew, and doesn’t say anything at all. He realizes the truth of your words; realizes how broken he has caused you to be; realizes that he deserves whatever you have to say next. What he doesn’t realize is that, in actuality, you have nothing left to say.

It’s ironic, really. The writer who has no more words. The one who always has a thought to add, an idea to throw around. You crafted together strands and strings of words for a living, your eyes brightening at the possibility of what your creation may become. You were never at a loss. No, instead, you had far too many exciting ventures floating around in your headspace to not know what to conquer next. But now, in the bedroom that you once considered your favorite place in the world, you look at a man who has left you with no more words to say.

Words, essentially, had ruined your life. You left for them. You chased them across the country, followed them into the old farmhouses that formed workshops and roundtables. You had decided, wholeheartedly, that running after words was worthwhile, was something you could point back to in your old age and say “Yes, I did _something_ right.”

But now? Words had betrayed you. Words were the reason you were split in two, a piece of firewood cracked right down the middle, only to become smaller and smaller beneath the flames, eventually turning into smoke that would dissipate through the air, never to be seen again. Words – and everything they stood for – had neglected to protect you from what you feared most.

“Where are you going?” Mark asks, rushing after you as you climb down the steps to the front door.

“I don’t know,” you say. And honestly, you didn’t. You just knew that you couldn’t stand to be breathing the same air as the one who ripped it from you in the first place. “Probably a hotel if they don’t have a redeye. Maybe I’ll go for a drive – the rental car is good until tomorrow morning,” you ponder your options, placing your hand against the door.

“Will you let me know that you’re okay, whatever you decide to do? When you’re ready to talk about it – if you want to talk about it – can you please let me know? I just need to know that you’re safe.”

You look at him with tears in your eyes, gripping the doorknob tightly.

“I love you,” he says.

This time, you don’t say it back.


End file.
